Obsession in Five Acts
by Smilingbomb
Summary: The Writer thinks he has found something that goes beyond the borders of love. Autor x Rue .


**Title: **Obsession in Five Acts

**Pairing: **Autor/Rue (Sort of?)

**Rating: **PG-13, bordering on M

**Author Notes: **This was written for the Princess Tutu fic exchange at Livejournal. I hope you enjoy this Serraduchi! I tried (really, really hard!) to stir in a little bit of that darkness you like. Enjoy!

**ACT I **

The first time he sees her: it is love. Or, rather, it is everything. The entirety of his body is weak, it is as if his soul has floated away and all that remains is an empty vessels. She is beautiful. Not cute, like the duck girl and not pretty like the Prince. She is something far beyond them.

Her legs are thin but muscular. Exactly what one would expect from a dancer. However, it is not only her shape that is beautiful, everything about her is perfect. Her face is long and always composed, as shown by her slightly pursed, but always soft, lips.

It was only fate, that the first time the Writer saw her; he confessed his devotion to her. The instantaneous connection could not be from the interference of a story writer. He felt that the feelings bubbling in his chest, the speeding of his heart, and faintness of breath had to be love in its purest form.

Her rejection was painful but not unbearable. The writer was a person that could rise up from nothing. On a fancy, he considered himself a phoenix.

He attributed the sting in his heart to high blood pressure.

**ACT II**

He writes letters to her. They begin with the expected formalities of a letter 'How are you?' and 'I hope everything is going well.' But they slowly progress to something else entirely. Something innocent becomes something sinister. Phrases like 'I need you,' and 'I will do anything,' start showing up.

The candle by his desk is slowly melting and the drop-drop-dropping of the wax lands on the letter. The Writer looks up and though his face is protected by the darkness of the room, the little light there shows a monster called obsession. Dark bags hang under his eyes, and his face is thin from not eating.

He sighs, staring at the print on the page. The Writer wishes, more than anything else, that his writing could come true. He wished the power invested to the undeserving, foolish Prince was given to him. After all, hadn't he devoted his life to the art? Had a day gone by in which the Writer didn't admire the art of writing? He shakes his head in disapproval, looking back to his current letter.

Behind him rests a pile of letters. All of them are full with heartfelt confessions of love. None of them will ever be sent.

**ACT III**

The Writer saw her again. It was in the library, a place that had practically become a second home for him. He heard clicks of shoes on the wooden floor and raised his head, wanting to quiet the source. But, instead he found himself speechless. The dark haired girl was wandering through the aisles of books in search of something. He wanted to help her but any sound he would want to make got stuck in his throat.

This was to be expected. Writing was his medium and public speaking was not. However, she saw him. Their eyes met and the Writer's body stiffened. It would appear that being nervous and confused were now normal states for him. However, he was greeted with surprise as the shoes clicking came towards him. The meeting of their eyes was not to be one of those awkward, forgettable moments.

She spoke to him and inquired about a book. It would appear that she was human, though the Writer had a hard time believing it. She, like other people, also searched for answers within books and philosophy.

Gracelessly he stands up. His feet feel heavy and as he walks he feels as if he is carrying stones. Each step is like a mile. Bookshelves that once seemed so close seem so far away and the Writer feels tension filling up the otherwise empty library. They reach the bookshelf, and he gives her the book on fairytales.

She thanks him and they stare at each other. Quietly she comments on the past, "You really are a good person."

Their exchange ends with the lightest kiss on the cheek.

**ACT IV**

He wonders if all women are cruel or if it is only her? She teases him. Occasionally, she crosses his path and they exchange words. But the words seem to mean something else entirely.

They speak of the past without mentioning it – of utter devotion and complete apathy. He wants her and she could use him. He, even with his lack of natural talent, is endowed with wisdom. The Writer can provide answers no one else can.

Formalities litter their conversations.

"Hello, how are you?"

"Wonderful, but, I must admit, I need help finding another book."

"I can always help."

This is the beginning of an affair in the Writer's eyes. They meet regularly. The exchange theories and thoughts. And, on occasion, a man named Drosselmeyer is mentioned. This intimacy kills the Writer. Even though she just nods and smiles, he knows she is listening. She devours his words, and he flourishes in the attention.

His eyes no longer have bags and his cheeks always have color. Even she has to admit he looks charming.

**ACT V**

She says she hopes he realizes that she doesn't love him. The Writer doesn't say anything except that, of course, he wouldn't even think it.

After all, they are just two travelers, searching for the world's answers.

She hesitates before finally kissing him. This time, it is rougher, their tongues meet and the Writer drowns in the sweet taste of her mouth. They have no bed, so they fall to the desk. Their bodies meet roughly and every movement is soaked in pity.

This is not love. This is regret, this is passion, this is desire. But it is not love.

When they are finished, she rises and slips on her uniform. They exchange a final look, and the Writer allows himself the last word, "I hope you find the answers."

Outside, a flock of crows pass by over his head.


End file.
